Happy to report, the high from Sunday night still hasn't worn off. It's been so fun reliving all the details from the race and reading everyone's comments. Tempering that elation slightly is little Scotty, currently fighting off yet another yucky virus. Considering he didn't miss a day of school last year, he has already missed five days this month alone. In his words, "Bad germs, Mom! Stay away!" On Monday night, he didn't eat any dinner and laid his head on the arm of the couch like a sad sack of potatoes. I chalked it up to exhaustion due to the very late night on Sunday; he didn't get to bed until well after 11pm. (Bad Mom, I know. But I firmly believe his experience of watching a big race that Momma was a part of might stick in his unconscious, one day inspiring him to want the same. If there is one thing I've learned about parenting so far, it's that kids don't listen to what you tell them, but instead, watch what you do. So one late night v. the opportunity to witness something totally out context of his small world? Definitely worth it). As he laid there, I asked to him, "Is this your mile 20, dear?" I giggled but he had no idea what that meant. He just looked at me with tired eyes. Okay, bedtime was suddenly pulled up to 6:00pm. After hefting 40+ pounds of the little guy up 18 stairs (I counted), I checked his temperature on a whim. Shockingly, it read 103. A cool shower commenced, along with a long night of dosing. My three hours of sleep from Sunday night quickly hit me; I was going to be up multiple times over the next night, too. It's cool; the adrenaline still hadn't worn off. And this is life, right? Sometime you just do things. His temp varied over the next 24 hours, but got scary high again by 3pm on Tuesday. 103.5. Huh? The doctor told me if it hits 104, we need to get him to the ER. Fearing the wait and co-pay more than anything, I carried him upstairs (again) for a cool bath. The fever came down two degrees within twenty minutes. Whew. Lifting and hauling a toddler 24 hours after a full marathon is probably not advisable, but I do think it helped me keep moving. I was back at Hill Day this morning in a very limited capacity, but my legs feel great. Toes appear to be regenerating. The whip-like red marks on my back, the only place I didn't Body Glide, have settled. (note to new runners: Body Glide is your best friend. Dip your whole body in it pre-race.) The only lingering issue is my mouth. For some strange reason, the roof of my mouth is totally swollen, almost inflamed. I have no idea how this happened. Was I clenching my jaw the whole time? (very possible). Did I run with my mouth open for 26.2 miles? (likely). Either way, eating solid foods is not an option right now, so oatmeal, scrambled eggs, and soup have become my new best friends. Here I thought I was going to go hog-wild and dig into a bag of kettle chips and M&Ms post-marathon. But honestly, if my only real side effect from the marathon is the inability to binge on bad foods, well, I'll take it. And in the three days since the race, it's been so fun celebrating the accomplishment while reminiscing about all the crazy stuff that went down. Apparently I told Reinier I was going to throw up as we ran through Fremont? I honestly didn't think I vocalized that thought. (whoops). Also, there is a picture of me at the finish line my friend Kerri posted that I have no memory of taking. I'm smiling, but the look in my eyes is downright manic. I'm also fairly confident that the two of them are holding me up. I also had a chance to analyze my splits. Miles 1-8 were glorious, a lovely 9:45 average. Miles 9-15 were faster than I anticipated; about a 10:30 pace. Had you asked me on Sunday night, I would have thought it was closer to 12:00 (it felt like 15:00). The real kicker came at mile 19, when I slumped into a 11:10 pace. The run up MLK and Carey just destroyed me. Mile 20 was 11:32, mile 21 came in at 12:06 (ouch), mile 22, the dreaded, awful, hateful mile, was 12:46...and mile 23 was 13:06. Hoo boy. Tough to see that in black and white. By the way, this is the exact opposite of what a negative split looks like (running the last half of the race faster than the first). I'm confident that if you looked up the definition of "negative split" in the dictionary, you'd see my face, crazy eyes and all. To my surprise, however, miles 24 to the finish were around an 11:30 pace. I really did go a little faster? Hmph, who knew. This was about the time Reinier was yelling stuff about the super loop and mantras. I only remember being too tired to argue back. Happy to see it worked! But now, all that pain, mania, and nausea has subsided. I'm left with a giant smile and the excitement to do it all over again. San Diego in June? Chicago in October? So much to think about!

Scott woke us up early Tuesday morning crying, claiming to have vomited on Snuggle Puppy. One whiff of his bedroom confirmed that he indeed had puked. All over. Luna, Froggie, and Giggle Hamster were all affected, as were his jammies and pillows, but Snuggle Puppy definitely got the brunt of it. The illness didn't come as a huge surprise, as something was going around. Little Cal down the street missed most of Halloween as a result of this virus. His sister ended up getting sick the same day as Scotty, making our quiet cul-de-sac more like Cell Block D. Break out the elderberry tea, y'all! Cleaning up puke is part of Motherhood. I'm okay with that. It doesn't make me happy, but I'm not grossed out by it. That's what the sanitary cycle on the washing machine is for. Plus, seeing your tiny human curled up on the couch, moaning, makes you want to do everything in your power to get them better. They just look so...helpless. When they don't have an opinion about which episode of Octonauts to watch, you know it's bad.

A sick Bear is a sad Bear

As I watched Brian quickly scoot out the door, fleeing to the safety of his office, I realized I was going mano y mano with a microscopic enemy. One that could potentially bring to my knees (literally) in a matter of days. The implications of this were not lost. I had essentially given up alcohol for the past three months only to potentially get dehydrated by a stomach bug twelve days before the marathon...are you kidding me? Oh, the irony. I pictured the Universe slapping its knee with wicked delight. It's cool. I would just keep my distance from my little outbreak monkey. He's four, right? That means he can aim into a trash can with accuracy. I would simply be on hand to supervise and push fluids. No problem. By mid-day however, Scotty decided the only place comfortable to sleep was directly on his mother. He breathed heavily in my face. "Momma," he whimpered. "My tummy hurts." I could feel the droplets of moisture come out of his mouth, he was that close. Why don't you just lick my nose? I mean, seriously.

I tried hard to not look horrified. It was challenging. After about four hours and far too many "Kingdoms of the Ocean" episodes, I was able to slowly roll out from under the boy. I then proceeded to gargle hand sanitizer and wash my face with rubbing alcohol. By Wednesday night, I was still keeping my dinner down and the only thing off was a tiny, tiny head cold. No big deal. Scotty was back to his typical bear-antics and was mainlining sea waffles like no one's business. (he was making up for his unexpected 24-hour fast, clearly). I don't think I've ever done so much laundry in such a short time period and I'm fairly certain every surface of our house has been wiped down within an inch of its life. But I think it's safe to declare the battle over. Kim - 1, stomach bug - 0. I won this round. Nine days until the marathon.

Despite my many, many, (many) posts about the marathon, I haven't lost sight that my first priority is always to be a mom first, runner second. Thankfully, Scott has made that easy. So while the blog hasn't given him much love lately, I thought I'd dedicate today's entry to him. (and when Scott is 14 and annoying the crap out of me, please remind to read this entry over so I can remember he really was a great kid).Of all the ages, four is the best so far. I am loving it. LOVING IT. Birth to 12 months? Meh. You are essentially just trying to keep the kid alive. Lots of body fluids, sleep deprivation, and a steep learning curve. Twelve to 24 months? Don't even get me started. This was my least favorite age. You have a mobile creature without a shred of common sense. They pitch around like drunken sailors, unable to communicate except by screeching at the top of their lungs. Your house becomes a mine field of lethal disasters and sleep is still not guaranteed. I shudder just thinking about that year. If you can survive the first two years, you are rewarded by eventually ditching the diaper bag. Years two to three are easier because the creature starts to communicate with you. It may not be what you want to hear, but at least their vocab has expanded past the word, "NO!" And years 3 to 4 seem to be all about socialization; don't hit your friend, stop hitting the cat, I said, don't hit the cat! This is right around the time you wonder if your child is going to be a serial killer. PUT THE CAT DOWN! Which brings me to four. Glorious, glorious four. Such a magical age. Four is like the reward for all of the suffering of the past three years. Four is when your child brushes your hair and tells you (sincerely) that you are pretty. Four is when they clear their own plates from the table and take out the recycling. Four is when you prefer their company over a considerable number of other people in your life. They insist on zipping your hoodie all the way to the top, "just to keep you warm, Mom." You have, with 99.9% assurance, they will in fact, not grow up to a be a serial killer. They have finally stopped hitting the cat. A snapshot of Scotty at four? He still wants to go to Stanford and be a sea otter doctor. He loves books, drawing, swimming, and his best friend Kate. He identifies with Scott "Squishy" Squibbles from "Monsters University" and loves riding his bike with Dad. He understands why we eat vegetables, when to calm down, and how to wipe his bottom. Four is glorious, indeed. Here, Scotty is playing "Dada" by wearing his glasses. Funny, he should just yell at the TV; that's probably more accurate. Considering his genetic pool, there is a very good chance his "play" will become reality very soon. Brian and I both have the eyesight of moles.

Scott drawing on his dry erase board...over and over and over again. (tip to parents: this is the best investment, ever. We have a little one we take to restaurants, too. It keeps him busy for hours, wastes no paper, and is great way to practice writing/drawing. When I get him new markers as a treat, he's over the moon. Who can resist the lure of new markers??)

Scott just didn't dress up as a sea dragon for Halloween; he actually was a sea dragon. He is showing serious signs of method acting. Maybe he and Nicolas Cage need to hang out sometime.

Speaking of Halloween, Scotty had a great time celebrating with his friends at school. Here, he and Kate model their costumes. Kate's mom wanted Kate to be Minnie Mouse; Kate insisted on being a doctor. I told Scotty to stick close to this one. (She, too, wants to go to Stanford. No joke. Class of 2031?)

And finally, Scotty loves pouring through his many shark books. He seems to enjoy mostly non-fiction. Who cares if Biscuit went to the pumpkin patch? We are currently deep into "Sixgill Blunt Nose Sharks; Creatures of the Deep" and loving every page of it. (well, he is. I'm just along for the ride).

We did it! We survived October! Before the crush of the holiday season is upon, click here for an oldie but a goodie from last year. You can probably whip up this ditty over the weekend. A new wreath will force you to pitch your rotting pumpkins in a timely fashion. Happy November, all!